


Coming Home

by beforethequeen



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforethequeen/pseuds/beforethequeen
Summary: GladNoct Week Day Three: Noctis loves to be comforted by Gladio's hugs.Gladio reaches out a hesitant hand to hover uncertain above Noctis’ wrist. Noctis stares at it. He knows Gladio is awaiting an answer, but he is afraid, afraid that Gladio will reach for him and his hands will sink right through his hologram skin. Noctis is no longer sure he is human, might not have a body at all.





	Coming Home

The initial sight of them drew a stab of fear through him, entering his chest and sinking through his stomach. All he could see were the aged faces he used to love, faces he thought of the entire time he floated in the nothingness. The comfort of them being alive was overwhelmed by the shock that they lived in this wilderness all these years— _ten_ , if Talcott were telling the truth—each of them looked ragged and defeated, despite the disbelieving relief on each of their faces. Noctis did not know how to talk to them, how to tell them what happened to him.

He could see the bright tears in Prompto’s red eyes, and Ignis’ chin tipped to his chest in fealty and relief, a tear slipped from a ruined eye. In Gladio, he saw stiff lips and clenched fists and set shoulders. He saw his oldest friends in shock, uncertain how to react to their returned friend. He can see, undoubtably, that they want to touch him. They can’t. He doesn’t want it. He

Noctis loathes to let them down around the fire, and yet he does as he must, because he cannot rob them any longer of the truth they need to know. Back in this life, he sees three people who loved a child who was taken from them, who slogged through misery in the hopes that he would someday be returned to them. He feels like an imposter. He is not the boy they would have died for. He is just an empty shell now, a weapon for the use of the Astrals. 

Though he shares the name and the body of the boy they once loved, Noctis has been in a place without time, without a corporeal form. There is expectation in all of their faces that Noctis does not know how to live up to. It shuts him down, frustrates him, for he cannot be what they want, and is not long for this world. He is fleeting, a tool. He had accepted it in the nebulous godliness of the Crystal, in Bahamut’s firm grip, but back on this dirt with his brothers seated around him with wounded eyes, Noctis knows he is no longer the boy they adored.

-

Noctis wakes into the darkness. It takes some time to remember that it has always been dark, that it is what the people of Eos are used to, and that he is warmed by the presence of the bodies of his friends, three men too old to be sleeping on rocks subjecting themselves to pain for the sake of a sentimental final night together. He looks around. Ignis and Prompto seem to be asleep, but Gladio is not with them. He sits up, looks around, but his Shield is gone. Carefully, quietly, he shuffles out of the tent to find the fire still blazing in the center of the haven, Gladio seated in his usual canvas chair. He lifts his chin to look at Noctis. Noctis looks back.

“Can’t sleep, Highness?”

His voice is gruff with something unnamed. 

Noctis shakes his head, though he is not sure Gladio can see him clearly with only the firelight to guide their mortal vision.

“Sit with me,” He says, firmly like he used to when he would tell Noctis to get back into position for another round on the mat. Noctis obeys him, as he always did.

But as Noctis draws closer, he can see the fire dancing in the wetness of his eyes, the tight pull of Gladio’s shoulders as he hides his tears. Noctis falters in his step, now sure Gladio knows he can see his pain. Still, he proceeds, as Gladio always taught him to, and sits in the chair beside him.

Gladio frowns, looking at him. “You look different, Your Majesty.”

“I’ve aged,” Noctis replies, eyes tracking the dance of the flames. “It’s inevitable.”

“No, it’s not time. It’s distance.”

Noctis looks at him then, finds Gladio watching him very carefully, brows furrowed but eyes wide like he trying to memorize all of Noctis all at once. Surely, Gladio knows every inch of him from years of physical training. Gladio must have memorized the dips and swells of his body, the planes of his face now carved and hardened by age. 

“Come here,” Gladio says. Noctis does not think he could get any closer, yet he pulls his chair beside Gladio’s so the plastic arms touch.

Gladio reaches out a hesitant hand to hover uncertain above Noctis’ wrist. Noctis stares at it. He knows Gladio is awaiting an answer, but he is afraid, afraid that Gladio will reach for him and his hands will sink right through his hologram skin. Noctis is no longer sure he is human, might not have a body at all. Gladio’s hand returns to his own chair. 

Noctis’ heart twists in shame in the confines of his tight chest. At least now he knows he can feel.

They say nothing for a while, both staring into the flame. It dances for them and keeps the daemons at bay. Noctis does not know how much time passes, he has existed in a place without time for so long. 

“I used to see you every day,” Gladio says, voice hoarse with what Noctis knows is thinly disguised emotion. “Every damn day at zero-seven-hundred and seventeen-hundred to spar or train for an hour. It used to drive me crazy when you were a kid, because you were a damn brat and never wanted to do anything, but I grew to love you.”

Noctis frowns at the flame.

“You got your head in the game. You fought back. You used to smile when you kicked my ass. I loved it. I loved every smile on your stone cold bitch face. I loved that it was hard to win your favor.”

Noctis sinks in his chair, he scrapes at the hem of his pants, turning the words over and over in his head. _Used to smile_. Noctis doesn’t smile anymore, can’t find a reason to. _Love_. Surely, he must have loved once.

“And then you were taken.”

A cold wind.

Noctis turns his palms up to the sky, traces his eyes over the unfamiliar lines in his hands. 

“I don’t…” He trails off, following the path in his skin. 

“It’s okay, Noct. You don’t have to say anything.” 

“No, but I... I want to say something, I just don’t know what. This is all very surreal. I’m a million light years away from who I was, my memories seem borrowed.”

“Can I,” Gladio begins to ask but does not continue.

“What is it?”

“Can I hold you?”

Noctis looks at him then, sees the furrow of his thick eyebrows over his open eyes. He feels like he can see deep inside of him, can see the wet shine of open vulnerability in him, another human reaching out in hope of a connection. They connected once. 

It seems like a horrible tragedy to break through his shell and find the person cowering underneath the night before his death, but death is soon and death is total. Noctis sucks in a breath and nods. He can feel the relief and gratitude roll off of Gladio.

Noctis drags his chair closer to Gladio, needing to move before he bolts full speed away. He wants to run backwards, he wants to run forward, but then Gladio’s big warm hand finds the bare skin of his arm and he freezes, stop motion as his heart thuds in his ribcage. It’s familiar, it’s a comforting touch. He leans forward, finds warmth stronger than the raging fire in Gladio’s presence, and then he is enveloped.

It’s like coming home. 

It’s like finding a part of himself once lost.

Two big solid arms wrap around him, curling Noctis into his relieving warmth as Gladio climbs from his chair and crouches in front of Noctis’ seat, pulling the smaller man to lay his head on his chest, press their chests flush together. Noctis finds the loud heavy breathing he is hearing is his own. He is trying to draw air fast into his lungs, suffocating under the sudden wave of comfort, under the wave pulling him back home.

Noctis doesn’t realize he is crying until he tastes the salt on his lips. 

A hand tangles up in Noctis’ scraggly, greasy hair, knots at his scalp and pulls him even closer. He can feel Gladio shaking, but the man is still a rock. _His rock_. The thought makes Noctis go numb. 

It’s like being hurled back into his old life at thousand miles a minute, slammed into his old feelings into his own self. He remembers the way he felt when Gladio would stand too close to him, the way he used to _want_ with his fallible mortal will. This is better than the feeling of victory when he would tackle Gladio to the mat, more adrenaline pumping than warping just out of Gladio’s grasp. It’s letting himself be weak. It’s letting _Gladio_ be weak. Noctis bring his arms to life to clutch Gladio to him, his hands grasping big shoulder blades to anchor himself in Gladio’s warm embrace.

“Where did you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“I missed you.”

“I’m home now.”

Noctis mouths at the salty tear-soaked skin of Gladio’s neck, finds the warm spice flavor of Gladio’s skin. 

Gladio presses his face into Noctis’ hair. He’s murmuring. Noctis cannot understand the words, but he knows the sentiment, he echoes in back in the way he mouths at the skin of his neck, committing scent and taste to a memory he knows will fade and perish in a few short hours. If he has a conscience past his final sacrifice, like the kings of old, he will always remember finally being wrapped up in the arms of his Shield, his sparring partner, his friend. If his ghostly mind deteriorates, makes his drip black scourge from his eyes for thousands of restless years, he will always remember the last moment he felt weak.

In Gladio’s arms, he feels human.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for enjoying my favorite XV ship with me.


End file.
